


Common Ground

by 1863



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Extra Treat, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 10:31:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21251945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: There are some things that only a fellow professional at the top of their game can understand.





	Common Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elpollodiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpollodiablo/gifts).

They’re not friends. 

They’ve never been friends, the paths that led them here too similar and yet, not similar enough. An escape for both, yes, but what is a clear, well-lit road for Kirill is nothing so much as a twisting, shadowed alleyway for John.

Still, there is respect there, if not any kind of affection, and there are some things that only a fellow professional at the top of their game can understand. And this, apparently, is one of them — although what exactly this is, Kirill cannot say. 

Nevertheless, he accepted the invitation with a curt nod and no indication of surprise whatsoever, despite the fact that they’ve never spent any time with each other outside of work before. He knows that neither of them would ever make such an overture without good reason and so now Kirill sits, on a leather stool in The Continental’s underground bar, sipping subpar vodka while John Wick stares into the depths of his bourbon. 

Silence doesn’t bother Kirill — another thing they have in common — but wasting time does. 

“If this was all you wanted to do,” he says at length, “we could have stayed in Brooklyn.”

“There are rules here that don’t exist in Brooklyn,” John replies. 

He’s right, of course, and it’s all the confirmation Kirill needs of something he’s suspected for some time now. 

“You’re leaving.”

Not _you are planning to leave_, or _you want to leave_, or _are you leaving? _John has decided on a course of action already and Kirill knows better than most that there is nothing that can stop John Wick from seeing a task through to its very end — no matter how bitter or bloody an end it may be. There is no question to ask, no answer to confirm, no doubts to be assuaged. John is leaving, and that is that. 

“I haven’t spoken to Viggo yet,” John says, not even pretending to deny it. Kirill waits for more, but nothing else comes.

“A formality,” he points out. “You are an associate, not a member.” 

He conceals the spike of irritation at John’s use of the boss’ first name — it’s disrespectful, regardless of whether or not the boss himself tolerates it — but deliberately adds a note of reproach to his voice, one that he knows John will hear.

There’s a quiet sigh, but John doesn’t look up, gaze fixed on the bourbon in his glass. “That was never what I wanted.” 

“Then why ally yourself with us at all?” Kirill’s voice is sharper than he means it to be and he takes a moment to even himself out. “Why not stay totally independent? After all,” he adds, “you are not even Russian. Not really.”

It’s a long time before John speaks again, taking another sip of his drink instead. He’s been nursing the same glass for some time now, as has Kirill; this place may have certain ironclad rules but so do men like Kirill and John. The borders of The Continental only extend so far and it’s a long thirty minutes back to Little Russia — half an hour of dark corners and open roads, of traversing enemy ground, and despite neither of them having a price on their heads at the moment it’s still a force of habit to behave as if there is. 

John shows no reaction to the question but Kirill can tell he’s listening, that he’s thinking carefully about what to say next. Kirill, for his part, isn’t even sure why he’d asked in the first place — the reasons anyone has for joining are theirs and theirs alone, and as long as they do their jobs in the here and now he has little interest in anyone’s past. Not even that of the Baba Yaga.

“I have a tattoo on my back already,” John says eventually. “I don’t need any more.” 

A tattoo marking membership to his first family, Kirill thinks. The only family, perhaps, that John has ever known. But whether John is saying that his allegiances have already been claimed or that his days of swearing fealty to anyone at all are over, Kirill has no idea. All he knows is that John has repeatedly refused offers of full membership, to the point where Mr Tarasov eventually stopped asking.

Kirill considers asking him why he wants to leave but really, any answer he gets will be unsatisfying. And the more Kirill thinks about it, the more obvious the actual answer becomes. 

“What’s her name?”

Kirill’s expression doesn’t change but he’s more than a little shocked at the smile the question elicits — one that looks more unguarded than any expression he’s ever seen on John’s normally dispassionate face. It bursts across his mouth and eyes and makes him look almost — almost _normal_, like an ordinary man with an ordinary life who has found, against all logic, an unordinary love. And it _is_ love, Kirill is sure, because nothing else could make a man like John Wick look quite this animated, even for only the split-second it takes for him to regain control and slip his masks back on.

“Helen,” John says. He pauses and glances over. “Have you ever been tempted to leave before?”

Kirill raises an eyebrow. “Over a woman?”

“Over anything.”

“No.” Kirill’s answer is as immediate as it is true. “Never.” 

John nods, taking him at his word without hesitation. They are both professionals, after all. Lies are as antithetical to them as leaving a job unfinished. 

“I always knew you were better at this than me,” he says.

“Strange words to hear from the Baba Yaga,” Kirill replies, but John shakes his head before Kirill even finishes speaking.

“I don’t mean what we do with a gun, or our fists, or —”

“— a pencil?”

John smiles thinly. “Or a pencil,” he agrees. “I mean… I mean a life of service.”

“That’s what we agree to,” Kirill points out. “What we _all _agree to. You may not bear our marks but you’re as bound to the Table as any of us are. We all serve. And we are all —”

“Of service,” John finishes for him. He nods again. “I know. Believe me, I know. But you serve out of loyalty — to Viggo, to the Bratva. It’s always been that way for you.”

“And you serve out of necessity,” Kirill says slowly, as understanding starts to dawn. Not just about why John is leaving, but why John wanted to speak with him about it first. “You want me to understand this,” he adds, “because you think that if I do, Mr Tarasov will as well.” 

“I know he won't make it easy for me,” John replies. “It’s his right not to. But if Viggo understands that it isn’t personal —”

“If you do manage to leave,” Kirill interrupts, “Mr Tarasov will honour the terms of your retirement. You cannot doubt this, not after working with him for so long.” 

“I don’t doubt him.” John takes a large sip of his bourbon, downing almost half of it in one swallow. “The rest of you, though…” 

He trails off and turns, looking Kirill in the eye for the first time all evening. Kirill sees a hard glint there, the inescapable resolve that makes John one of the best there is. But it isn’t a threat so much as it is a simple reminder, a reiteration of a certain irrefutable truth: that anything that stands between John Wick and a target will not stay standing for long. Regardless of whether that target is a perfectly aimed headshot or a house in the suburbs with a woman named Helen.

“And me?” Kirill demands, offended not by the reminder but by the fact it's being directed at him. “Do you doubt me?”

John searches his eyes. Kirill doesn’t look away, doesn’t even so much as blink, and eventually, John raises his glass. 

“No,” he answers. “You follow the orders you’re given. I respect that.” 

Kirill frowns a little. John is not a man to waste words, nor is he one to use them frivolously. There’s a reason he chose to frame his answer in this specific way but Kirill can’t quite grasp what it is. Still, he taps John’s tumbler with his own and together they drink, slowly, maintaining eye contact the entire time. 

“Does she know?” Kirill asks, setting his glass back down on the counter. 

“Enough,” John replies, knowing exactly what Kirill means. “She knows enough.”

Which means, of course, that she doesn’t know everything. Kirill wonders what John did not divulge — how many people he’s killed? how he’s killed them? how good he is at killing in general? — but doesn’t even consider asking. Having a drink together is already stretching boundaries Kirill has no interest in breaking; he will not step any further into John’s unexpectedly mundane wish for a normal life. 

Perhaps the two of them aren’t so similar, after all. 

But there’s no denying that they’ve done some good work together; efficient, precise work that has benefited the Tarasovs in real, tangible ways. Kirill won’t miss him — how can he be upset at the departure of a man he barely knows? — but he won't be surprised if he one day feels a twinge of regret at the loss of John’s skill by his side. Already some part of him is mourning what will end up wasting away in the soft cushions of a plump couch, or in the overly bright aisles of a supermarket, or wherever else people on the other side spend their free time. 

But John has made his choice already and all of them will have to live with the consequences. There's no point in dragging this out any further. Kirill finishes off what’s left in his glass and waits for the burn of alcohol to fade before pushing his chair back and standing up.

“Удачи, John Wick,” he says. “I hope we never see each other again.” 

The ghost of a smile crosses John’s face. He raises his glass again in silent salute, taking Kirill’s words as the well-wish they were meant to be. No, they’re not friends and they never will be, but Kirill still appreciates the strength of will it will take to leave. John had spoken the truth, earlier — Mr Tarasov will not make this easy for him. 

Kirill nods his farewell and turns away, making his way out of the bar. John doesn’t stop him, knowing without being told that this, too, is a well-wish of a kind. Kirill left him to pay for their drinks for a reason, and it wasn't to be rude or to win some juvenile power play. 

Whether or not John succeeds in getting out makes no real difference. Either way, he won’t be needing his coins anymore. He might as well use them up now. 


End file.
